


good boy gone bad

by Celandine_Flower, radiogalaxy



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Crimes & Criminals, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mafia AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 08:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celandine_Flower/pseuds/Celandine_Flower, https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiogalaxy/pseuds/radiogalaxy
Summary: Classic. A black sack on his head, wrists tied up, and a couple of minutes on the backseat of a car with tinted windows – and now the incorruptible policeman is sitting in a front of the head of the mafia clan, whom he wholeheartedly wishes to put in jail for a very, very long time, because this seems right and important to him, almost as the ultimate aim of his existence.[AU: Hank is one of the most influential criminals in Detroit, Connor is a policeman with strong principles, who considers putting Hank in jail his duty]





	good boy gone bad

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [good boy gone bad](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/521420) by звездное радио. 

> This work was written by me more than a year ago and published on russian site Ficbook.  
Dear @Celandine_Flower translated it on English for you.  
I hope you enjoy.
> 
> In Russia we have different meaning of pronoun "you" depending on the spelling (uppercase or lowercase). If it is a second-person singular pronoun, that is some kind of respectable “you” as opposed to something like "thou". So when you read appeal "you*" be familiar with the fact that meant the extra respectation.

A small town that was once the capital of the US auto industry now lives by its own rules.  
If you want to open a business, even if it’s a flower shop at the corner of Plymouth Road, you go to Hank Anderson.  
If you want to buy or sell weapons, you go to Hank Anderson.  
If you want to take a higher position ... yes, that's right, you still go to Hank Anderson.  
And that's not bad.  
It is possible to put up with that. Because the head of the mafia clan, Hank Anderson, does not arrange demonstrational executions, does not get blackout drunk, and does not attempt to such out the last resources of the city to fill his own pockets. He holds Detroit in his sturdy hands, drinking red wine and being a very good judge of character. Anderson knows all city officials in person because he chooses them. He also knows which team will win which match, what will be said in the evening news, and who will buy the shares of the once great automobile production. He holds Detroit under control, creating a sense of stability and security - something so wanted and needed by the people.  
The city does not mind. Therefore, no one asks about the rare murders. No one is alarmed when some people just disappear. This means that they were ineffective or, what's worse, decided to run into some trouble with Hank Anderson. 

But the world is not without fucking idealists. Connor has been working in the Detroit police for only half a year, but during this time he has already managed to piss off his superiors, colleagues, and even the mafia. He always has a perfectly ironed uniform, a white shirt with no stains of jam or mustard; he has no bad habits at all. And he works – for fuck’s sake. Catches criminals, fills cells with them, fills in the reports with perfectly even handwriting, and, with all of that, never complains. His colleagues call him a fucking robot amongst themselves. Criminals consider him a stupid puppy. Because every single time, as soon as he puts some of them behind bars, the phone in the office of the police commissioner rings. A couple of short phrases – and criminals go free, accompanied by a frustrated look of brown eyes. And then everything repeats: Connor catches someone again, twists them, brings them to the station; the damn phone always rings, the lattice door opens with a creek, the commissar whispers an awkward apology, the criminals mockingly look at their unlucky jailer, while he escorts them, face twisted from a hurt sense of justice. Stupid puppy, who runs for the ball, brings it to the owner, who throws it into the distance again. 

Hank Anderson can only take this stupid game for several months. But instead of the usual “get rid of him”, he stretches the calm “deliver to me” because, for once in a long time, he’s curious to see who has been disrupting his plans every now and then. 

Classic. A black sack on his head, wrists tied up, and a couple of minutes on the backseat of a car with tinted windows – and now the incorruptible policeman is sitting in a front of the head of the mafia clan, whom he wholeheartedly wishes to put in jail for a very, very long time, because this seems right and important to him, almost as the ultimate aim of his existence. 

“Untie him and remove this bag. What are you – barbarians?” Hank Anderson’s voice is low, a little hoarse. 

Calm and quiet, enveloping, penetrating somewhere deep into consciousness. Connor feels his sore hands being released, and then his eyes – which have forgotten the feeling of light so quickly - screw up in the shining of a gold chandelier. The policeman squints, blinks several times, and then looks at the person in front of him – a man in a bright expensive suit, with gray hair trimmed in a short tail on the back of his head and a neatly shaved beard. The man looks impressive due to his tall and strong physique. 

“Oh, Holy Sofia!” Anderson whispers, fascinated, examining a policeman without constraints. “Rick, I remember, you said that my plans were being disrupted by some pretty puppy,” - the head of the mafia clan refers to a man in a gray suit standing by his table; Connor decides that this is his right-hand man. “But this, my friend, is not a pretty puppy. This is an amazingly handsome young man.” 

Connor wants to rebel, but the criminal king of Detroit recommends keeping his mouth shut by glancing with his bright eyes. At least in the current circumstances. 

“Look at how delightfully this ugly, cheap police form looks on him.” Anderson purrs with pleasure, smiling at ease; he sounds as if he is describing a picture or another work of art. “Oh, I would be so glad if someone ironed my shirt like that.” 

“Mr. Anderson ...” Connor is trying to give his voice maximum confidence and even a bit of a threat, but either because of a long silence or of a truly strange, tense setting, he sounds quiet and almost begging. 

“My God, what a voice!” the mafia leader smiles, exposing his white teeth, and sits at the large wooden table, directly opposing the kidnapped man. “Sure in others circumstances my name will sound even more exciting.” 

The policeman opens his mouth. And freezes when the meaning of the words, in conjunction with the shameless look, reaches his understanding. From the others’ perspective, he must look like a beached fish, gasping in words and thoughts like that. And then his cheeks get crimson. And the brighter the blush, the wider the predatory smile of Hank Anderson becomes. 

“Rick, tell the dinner to be served here,” the mob turns to his assistant, and then his gaze freezes on the sharp features of Connor’s face. “For two people.”

Anderson's right-hand man nods and hides behind the door. And the policeman, despite his hands being already free, feels chained to his chair. 

“What do you say your name is, once again?” asks Hank, taking a cigar from a wooden box. 

“My name is Connor, I'm a policeman, and I intend to arrest you, Mr. Anderson,” the servant of the law blurts out without hesitation, putting on an expression of extreme seriousness and focus. The mafia leader makes a deep puff, raises his eyebrows in surprise, slightly squeezes his lips, suppressing a grin, and nods. 

“Well, that’s great. Great, Connor. I like your ambitious plans. You got handcuffs with you?” 

The policeman nods sharply and only then realizes that Anderson is just mocking him, pulling his strings with his incredibly even tone and what seems like a disinterested glance. A short knock on the door, a minute of vanity, and two plates with flavored redfish as well as two wine glasses and sets of cutlery are placed in front of the men. Connor doesn't budge. His back straight, hands lying on his knees, chin upturned and an accusing look. Hank finds it funny, the image of a cop is incredibly comic, and, at the same time, unbelievably stupefying - sort of a good boy, whom he terribly wants to spoil, make him drink expensive wine and watch his cheeks turning red, his tightly pressed thin lips opening. He wants to knock out a few strands from the neat hairstyle, pulls off the black uniform jacket with a police patch, set him on his knees and listen to his half-drunk whisper, feel his thin cold fingers, inhales his scent. Anderson gracefully wields with a fork and knife, covering his eyes from pleasure when the trout literally melts on the tongue, giving away Provence herbs and lemon sourness; takes a little sip of red wine, licks his lips and looks at the policeman impatiently. 

“Help yourself, officer,” Hank whispers derisively. “Today, my cook did his best. Perhaps I will not kill him and his lovely family.” 

Connor flinches as if on an electric chair, his eyes are angry, outraged - and then, after understanding that this was a specific joke, - even offended. It would be nice to sit him on the table. Palm his back and hips. Make him forget about this stupid joke. Make him forgive and ask for more. 

“You're not local, are you?” – Hank wonders coldly. His tone could be compared to cold and hot shower: one moment it’s freezing to goosebumps, next time it’s warm enough to relax muscles. Connor hides these thoughts away and nods. “Then you do not know what was happening to this city until I started maintaining order here,” Anderson pronounces thoughtfully, taking another sip of wine, savoring the tart aftertaste on his lips. 

“You are a criminal, Mr. Anderson, whatever your intentions might be, your methods are unacceptable and illegal,” Connor clatters smoothly. And a little detached, as if he reads poem by heart, and not threatens the head of the mafia of Detroit. 

“I find you both likable and annoying at the same time,” Hank concludes, without even paying attention to what the policeman has said. “I sympathize with your colleagues. You’re a boy with an A-student’s complex, who asks to be both beaten up and fucked out.” 

Connor swallows his approaching anxiety. Then takes a deep breath, gathers his thoughts together, and pronounces: “You can't intimidate me, embarrass me, or whatever you’re trying to do. You, like other criminals, will very soon find yourself behind bars.” 

“That's nice,” Anderson laughs. “I’ll be looking forward to it. Don’t you want to leave your phone number?” the mob boss meets a bewildered look and continues gladly: “Well, you know, so that I can call you when I’ll decide up to confess to crimes.” 

“Call the police station and they will be happy to hear you,” Connor utters busily, rising from his chair and heading towards the exit. 

“Oh, yes, my boy, you're right. I call them every time you lock my people up. And they’re always happy to hear me. And then they ask for forgiveness, and in a couple of hours, my men are back in line. Does this upset you?” 

The policeman strains all over become a taut string that is about to burst. 

“Whatever you say will be used against you,” Connor whispers resolutely, turning over his shoulder and giving the mafia leader a despising look. 

“Excellent threat,” Anderson praises derisively. “But your tongue can be put to a much more interesting use.” 

These words, uttered in a low semi-whisper, invade consciousness without invitation, burn into the cortex of the brain, and send a wave of goosebumps along the vertebrae. 

“May be we should just get rid of him, boss? So that he doesn’t get under your feet?” Rick asks, when the cop leaves the house. Hank lifts his head, looks at his assistant, like on a complete idiot, and says: 

“If you will once again - not even say - just think about it - you will sit in front of me playing Russian roulette. Alone.” 

The man in the gray suit nods politely and utters a confused apology. 

“I have big plans for him,” Anderson says with a smile. 

* * *

Connor’s cell phone shows a notification of an incoming message the very next evening.

_“Just curious, what’s Detroit’s only incorruptible cop up to”. _

It was foolish to believe that the most powerful man in the city would not be able to find his number on his own. Connor clenches his jaws almost to hear his teeth gritting. Who the hell does this criminal think he is to call the entire department bribed? He is making a mistake if he feels like he is allowed to do anything. Commissar Fowler would never dance to someone else’s tune. He would never deal with people like Anderson.  
At the same time the mafia leader – damn him – is almost reading the policeman’s thoughts. And sends Connor a photo, where he and Fowler are sitting in the middle of an expensive restaurant, having dinner. The policeman turns off the phone. 

_“Tonight there will be a robbery on the corner of Rowan and Bird Street. A little bird told me.”_

Connor would like to ignore that. He would like to redirect this message to the commissar right now in an intent to lock Anderson up. But Fowler would say something like "But he is trying to help,” he would designate Connor responsible for the operation and dedicate several patrols to help him.  
The arrest would be successful. 

_"If you want to say thanks, then you better do it in person." _

The policeman does not give in to the provocation, he will not become another pawn in this dirty game. He will not side with Hank Anderson - this narcissist, brazen mob with such an attractive charisma and... If dreams are projections of desires, then Connor should dream of Hank being behind bars, and not sitting in a chair in front of him, with a wide smile, an eager look; and he certainly shouldn’t be pointing the policeman to his knees in an unequivocal inviting gesture. Connor doesn’t want to sit on them. He doesn’t want to feel the aroma of tart perfume and cigars, run his hand into the silver hair, feel the silk of the expensive shirt with bizarre patterns. This should be... wrong. 

_“What did you dream about today?” _

The question takes him by surprise. Makes him nervously look around. And almost howl from that damned insight. No, it can’t be possible that he understood something, saw something from the few miserable minutes of their meeting. That's a coincidence. Absolutely typical text for an idiotic message.  
Reassure yourself, Connor. 

A few days later they run into each other in the pet store. Hank has several cans of dog food in his hands. Connor has a package of food for aquarium fish. 

“Who could have thought, officer, that you wear ordinary clothes as well,” Anderson grins, giving a discreet white T-shirt and the simplest jeans an interested look. “I thought, you have already become one with your uniform. Like Venom.” 

His mocking "officer" and "you*" are simply outraging, and... wait, did he just make a comic books’ character reference? 

“I’m willing to look at this confusion and perplexity forever,” Hank laughs. “Although there are more pleasant alternatives. For example, desire. Or pleasure.” 

Connor turns away and pretends to be very interested in artificial algae and decorative figures for aquariums. Blue neon lamps’ glow falls on his pale skin as an unnatural futuristic hue. Connor feels the devouring gaze of bright eyes with all his body. 

Hank did not exaggerate when he spoke about his own influence on the police.  
Connor understands it when he arrives in the middle of the night for a call from a park in the center of the city. He was not assigned with any partners and neither was he really told what happened.  
Nothing happened.  
It’s just Hank Anderson in a black wool coat over his suit, with a familiar ponytail on the back of his head, in black leather gloves and with a leash in one hand. At the other end of the leash is a huge St. Bernard. 

“I thought you wouldn't mind taking a walk,” Anderson smiles. “This is good for health and perfectly relaxing. Helps to get in a needed mood.” 

“I'll write you a penalty for a fake call,” Connor says, pulling out some blanks and a pen from the car’s glove box.  
He stands near the car, and the dog sniffs his legs with interest. 

“A crime has happened, officer,” the mob boss says seriously. “A theft.” Connor is trying to look as serious as possible. But he knows what Anderson is going to say, damn joker, how stupid!.. “You stole my heart.” 

A police officer issues a fine in an unusually ragged handwriting, hurries as if this life depends on this. Sticks the blank in a leather gloved hand, comically turns on his heels and gets into the car. 

_“I was planning on having dinner tonight at Little Italy. Do you think you can accompany me?” _

Connor ignored all the mob’s messages. And he should have done the same with that one too. But something inside him started boiling, reached the fever pitch. This confidence in his ability to intrude into someone else's life like that, to play, to tease ... It is unbelievable! 

_“Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Anderson?” _ the policeman hastily types in response. Silence. Connor nervously strokes the screen with his fingers, checks the connection quality, locks the phone, but immediately turns it on again, unable to postpone it for a second. His own pulse echoes in his temples. What does he take the liberties of?! Vibration rolls like a bolt of lightning across his fingertips.  
It’s a voice message. 

**"Oh, Connor, if I could, I would have done it a long time ago."** Hank's voice is low, hoarse. This half-whisper penetrates the skin, comes down along the spine with goosebumps, dries the lips and shifts the heart somewhere closer to the throat.** "I would shower you with things that you will never be able to afford with your modest salary of a policeman." **

This is not right. Connor just needs to turn it off, call in the communication center tomorrow and buy a new sim card. Connor doesn't budge. The phone lies on the table in front of him, and the mind-darkening voice from the speaker continues: 

**"You would be an embellishment for this place, Connor."** His own name from the mouth of the mob sounds treacherously seductive, makes him exhale noisily and close his eyes. He wonders what Hank means? Is the place he is talking about the restaurant where he plans to dine, his huge mansion, or is it just "next to me"?..  
**"In a suit more expensive than your company car, with an expensive watch on your wrist, not with this plastic shit.”** The young policeman was never attracted by luxury. Men did not attract him as well. But now it is impossible to ignore - the obsessive anxious feeling that he wants to bury somewhere deep, hide, as his most terrible secret.  
**“But you are incorruptible. You're proper to the core.” **Why do these words sound like something that he should be ashamed of? Why is Connor ashamed, really?.. After all, he hears regret in this alien voice. And he feels, he understands that Hank is teasing him, provoking on purpose.  
The message ends.  
And Connor listens to it eleven more times. 

He stands in front of a mirror and looks accusingly at his reflection in trousers, a white shirt, black suspenders, with a neat knot of a chocolate-color tie. Runs his palm over the hair, trying to fix a loose strand. And after forty minutes he stands uncertainly near the "Little Italy". Looking through panoramic windows on a luxurious interior, gold and red - vulgar, pathetic, even went - still wrong, unnatural. Licks his dry lips. Clenched his hands into fists. His feet as if grown into the ground, impossible to move. Connor does not even see Hank among the guests of the restaurant, tries to find him with at first, but then just lowers his sight. Yellow glow of the chandeliers falls on his fair skin, drips golden drops on his dark hair, reflects as stars in his brown eyes.  
The guy turns too abruptly, it is clear that he forces himself to do it – and leaves away.  
In a supermarket near his house he buys a bottle of red wine that is still rubbish, Connor never liked alcohol, especially wine - but now it returns him to the mystical atmosphere of the office of Mr. Anderson, excitingly teasing his tongue with sourness before reflecting in his throat with tartness and heat.  
Connor gets drunk till his cheeks redden. Leans back on the couch, runs his fingers into his hair, messing them beyond recognition, laughs with his own thoughts, weakens his tie and undoes the top buttons of the shirt. And he turns the damn phone in his hands, the digits of the familiar number blur in front of clouded eyes. He plays the voice message, brings it to his ear and does not hold back a moan when a powerful, confident voice again promises an interesting life. 

**"Connor" ** His own name, said in this strange voice, envelops the consciousness with hot caramel - slowly, viscidly, sweetly. Connor himself cannot really tell when exactly did his hand slip down to the lower abdomen. With his shaking from drunken excitement fingers, he copes with a belt buckle, with a flexible fly, and clasps the already aroused member with a long sigh. Alcohol dissolves the remaining bits of self-control and self-made restrictions, boarders, prohibitions. Wine flows through his veins instead of blood, Hank's voice penetrates deep into consciousness, whispering in his ear - hoarsely, languidly, slowly. Connor clamps the phone with his shoulder and caresses himself with both hands, groans hushfully, because he lacks sensations, touches, somebody else’s body, glance - he only has the voice, the voice that brought him to such a damn needy state.  
**"You would be an embellishment for this place, Connor." **Yes, damn it, he wants it badly, he hasn’t wanted anything else like that in his life, in this damn correct life - be a good boy, Connor, go to the academy, Connor; and this damn fixed idea of “putting Anderson behind bars” is turning uncontrollably in "surrender to Anderson."  
**"You're proper to the core."** No, Hank, you’re fucking wrong, don't pretend that you know everything, that you understand people; because it is never right to touch yourself, imagining your enemy, the criminal, his hands, his eyes, his voice!.. Connor closes his eyes, throws back his head and the phone slides along his neck, falls on the sofa, and the policeman does not even hear the beeps, damn this sensitive touch panel, he doesn’t even hear the heartfelt “Hello” when the mafia man picks up the phone. 

“H-Hank ...” the guy whispers almost at the peak, gasping at the sensations surging, sobbing from the frivolous pleasure, which is almost, damn it, still quite a little, a few ragged quick movements and ... “Hank!” 

Connor pours onto his stomach, dirtying his shirt (in which he had to go to the restaurant, to Hank, so that later, perhaps, they could continue the evening more interestingly), his chest abruptly lifting, his breathing uneven, but his eyes closed, a beatific smile on his lips. His muscles fill with warmth, the whole body relaxes, and alcohol is good at relieving from heavy thoughts. 

In the morning lousy wine hurts his head.  
One of the bloodiest crimes for the past few months is clearly not going to help.  
Almost the entire department snoops around the apartment where a triple murder was committed the day before. One important detail raises the status of the case in a moment, it is found almost immediately - a few bags of damn red ice, a drug that has become a real uncontrollable disaster in Detroit just over ten years ago.  
And while the whole department is investigating, Connor goes to a man who controls everything in this city. 

Hank greets him with a smile - not a predatory grin, but something ... soft. He gives a sign to his people to leave them alone, and again - Hank sits at the big table, Connor stands in front of him like a naughty schoolboy who was summoned to the principal. It’s only that Connor’s sight is unusually furious. 

“Mr. Anderson,” and his voice is dry, serious. 

“Call me Hank. I liked it,” quietly pulls the mob, lifting the corners of his lips in a contented smile. 

Connor does not hear, does not understand, or refuses to understand - the words of the man in front of him spinning somewhere in the mind, unable to get fit correctly in his flow of thoughts. Another topic is lit with red alarm, the only important topic for now.  
A policeman throws a small bag of red granules on the table. Looks at Anderson with an impenetrable facial expression. Contrary to all possible expectations, Hank gets up from his chair, as if scalded, clenches his hands in fists, the smile disappears, and looks at Connor angrily. 

“From where?” quiet and sharp. 

“I thought you would answer this question for me,” the policeman minted. 

Anderson is changing in the face. His cheekbones tense, eyebrows move to the nose. He grabs the phone, makes several calls, completely ignoring Connor’s presence. 

“My people will find the distributor. I will not let the situation repeat.”

Connor doesn't want to believe it. It is much easier for him to hammer the idea that Anderson is the ultimate scoundrel into his head. Cut out on the inside of his eyelids that Hank is a criminal, who belongs in prison. Because, with these thoughts, it's much easier to stay away from him. 

Connor arrests two dealers during the next week. They are only small pawns but commissar Fowler seems to be immensely pleased with the effectiveness of the boy. The newspapers still do not report on this, but criminologists increasingly find traces of the drug use on the dead. Overdosed garbage begins to congregate in the hospital. And then everything stops. 

_“A small gift is waiting for you at work,” _says a message from a familiar number.  
Connor is annoyed. Now he really has neither the time nor the desire to think about Hank. He doesn't even have time to sleep more than five hours a day. For the last two and a half weeks he has been living solely due to a high level of caffeine in his blood.  
But he sees a man chained to the railing near the department. He is badly beaten, traces from a variety of injuries are visible – he was tortured. Documents and a note are found in the jacket pocket: “This person is responsible for the new wave of red ice spread.” 

In the next couple of days, unknown people set fire to several warehouses in the port. A small ship sinks to the bottom, as it turns out, it served for transporting and storing of the drug.  
Everything gradually returns to normal. And when the prisoner confesses with all the details, Fowler leads the whole department in Jimmy's Bar nearby.

* * *

Connor drinks like it’s his last time.  
He hopes he will pass out as soon as he crosses the doorway of his house. Hoping to get rid of a red light of disturbing thoughts. It mixes whiskey with beer and some kind of sugary cocktail with a dumb umbrella.  
And then he sees Hank Anderson sitting in the back of the room sipping tequila.

“Hank!..” Connor’s tongue braids even in four letters. Instead of taking an opposite sit, or the one close by, he lands his ass right on the table behind which the mafia man is sitting. 

“Are you celebrating the case closure?” Anderson wonders indifferently, looking at the drunk cops in different parts of the bar. 

“Y-yes, Hank. This was all you, wasn’t it? Then and now too.” Connor smiles drunkenly, Anderson squints from the persistent smell of alcohol, but can not turn away, look away from a loose tie, a slightly wrinkled shirt with three buttons undone; from a small mole on the neck and a drop of sweat that slides to the clavicle. “I know everything, Hankey! I dug up all the information about you. You're not a villain at all.” 

Connor laughs, teases, his eyes are sly, his tongue keeps circling his lips, and it is hard to impartially look at him like that; but Hank is holding on, ignoring, clutching to his impressive composure.  
The young cop leans closer, his warm breath tickling the skin, and Anderson rises abruptly, grabs the boy by the shirt and drags him toward the toilet. Connor, damn him, tries to kiss, but it turns out to be challenging - he pokes it the neck, then the cheekbones, and that only makes him laugh. 

“I think about you all the time, Hank,” the cop whispers to mob’s neck. “I think about you when I touch myself...” 

Anderson turns the policeman to face his back and sharply pushes him into the cold sink’s enamel. Connor hisses, twists, bends and rubs his damn stunning ass against Hank's hips. 

“Why are you acting like such a whore?” the man growls.  
“I can be anyone you want me to be, Mr. Anderson,” Connor whispers derisively, covering his eyes, biting his lip and sticking his ass harder. 

Oh, fuck, and where does Hank get so much patience from? Connor’s sobered by the fingers clutching tightly the hair on his nape, and the ice-cold water, splashed on his face with somebody’s palm. Connor screams, writhes, squirms harder when the cold drops roll down to the heated skin of his chest. Hank turns the unlucky cop to face him, trying to find any signs of adequacy in his brown eyes. 

“You want me too, don’t you, Hank?” Connor whispers, almost whimpers, exhausted, lost in his appeals to the mafia man: you*, you, Hank, Mr. Anderson, it all mixed up in the poisoned by alcohol head.  
“Yes, Connor,” the man admits, trying to give the dark hair any kind of decent look.  
The guy in his arms dangles like jelly.  
“So why?..” 

Good god, now the cop seemed to be about to cry from an explosive cocktail of desire, resentment and alcohol. Hank could not even imagine that he was so malleable, needy and highly flammable. 

“Because I want you, you moron, and not a body with more alcohol than blood in it,” Hank grumbles, again picking up cold water in his hands and washing the flushed face of a policeman.  
“Oh,” Connor is somehow childishly surprised, and this is his first emotion, which does not look like a result of intoxication. 

“Come, I'll give you a ride.” 

It is not simple.  
They are driven by a Hank's man, whom Connor pronounces the address with difficulty, and they stay together in the back seat throughout the ride. Connor laughs, cuddles, breathes in the neck, pulls the buttons of the shirt and talks confusedly about what he knows: Hank Anderson was a lieutenant of the Detroit police force, an incredibly talented one, but he stepped to the other side, when the city was under the red ice dependency. 

“Tell... me,” Connor whispers, breathing in the smell of expensive perfume and Cuban cigars. “I want to know…” He is still drunk, even though he already looks more like a human, but Anderson is sure that he will not even remember the story when he wakes up in the morning with a ruthless hangover. 

“We did everything we could. But the spread of drugs was impossible to stop without crossing the line,” Hank said. “The police simply did not have the needed resources, but we were bound by the law at the same time. I spat on it. Gathered the guys who have already suffered because of the red ice, and we fought them back. In those days, people were afraid to even leave the house. We did not disdain anything: murders, arsons of alleged warehouses and labs. We managed to win. But there is no going back when hands are covered in blood till elbows."  
Connor did not answer. Hank looked at him and made sure: the guy fell asleep on his shoulder.  
His lips stretched into a smile themselves. 

_"Thank you."_  
Hank did not know how to react to such a message received the following evening. He sighed and put the phone down to look further into the ledger through the lenses of his glasses.  
The search for the new distributor of red ice turned out to be effective and successful, but extremely costly.  
Connor, after all ... Will hardly appear here again. Now he has a terrible headache, but he is also tormented by shame from within, because he nearly gave himself up to the criminal who is, above all, twenty years older than him. 

But he appears.  
In an ironed shirt, with a perfectly even tie knot, neatly combed and in his beloved black jacket with a Detroit Police Department badge.  
Hank talks on his phone when the young man accompanied by one of the mafia guys appears in the doorway. Anderson throws "I'll call you back" that tolerates no objections and carefully looks at Connor, apparently expecting that the goal of his visit will be written on his forehead.  
Hank nods to his man, and he leaves them alone.  
A few seconds later Connor turns the lock on the cabinet door and walks softly towards the criminal. A smile blossoms on his lips. 

“I came to arrest you, Mr. Anderson,” Connor says, coming closer and closer, skirting the wooden table, touching the massive oak table top with his fingers. 

Hank turns around in his chair, looks at the policeman with a slightly raised eyebrows, but his look too clearly reads "continue." Another couple of unhurried steps, and Connor finds himself right next to the chair, looks at the mob from top to bottom, the red light gleams in his eyes from the lampshade behind the desk.  
The policeman leans down, puts his hands on Anderson’s shoulders and, without interrupting the eye contact, leads his cool fingers over the man’s strong hands, circling the muscles, bulging veins; the next second handcuffs close on Hank's wrists with a metal clang. His hands are pulled back, a small chain bites into the back of the chair. No chance to break free. But nobody wants to break free. The sound of the snapped handcuffs echoes in his head, passes through the body like a wave of heat. 

“You are arrested for driving the police officer to insanity,” Connor whispers to the man’s lips. “You have the right to shout his name when you forget you own from pleasure.” 

Mother of god. Apparently, the training program at the police academy has changed a lot during these years. 

Connor sits on Hank's lap. One hand cleverly undoes the neat tail, allowing the silver strands to frame the cheekbones, and immediately digs into them, gently pulling away, twisting on the fingers. The second hand outlines the cheekbones and slips to the neck, quickly deals with the buttons of the coffee-colored shirt, strokes the heaving chest. Hank reaches out to the reddened lips, but Connor teasingly pulls away. 

“Do you want a kiss, Mr. Anderson?” He asks innocently.  
“Yes, damn it,” Hank growls, leaning forward, ignoring the pain in his wrists. 

Connor raises his eyebrows, as if surprised, but satisfies this requirement: covers the dry lips with his own, holds his tongue over them, but Anderson is clearly not going to play by the rules, he rudely rumples the cop’s lips in a wet kiss, greedily penetrates the tongue into his mouth, finally driving crazy, depriving of oxygen and the chances to retreat. Connor moans through the kiss, and it inflames more.  
It would be great to lay him on the table, without interrupting the kiss, pull off the uniform pants and punish for this challenging game. It’s only that the handcuffs interfere. The policeman pulls back, trying to bring his breath back to the usual rhythm – but for what? After all, he will kiss again in a few seconds, he will cling his lips eagerly, impatiently, though trying to pretend that he controls the situation. His hands slide lower, unbuttoning the shirt, pulling it off the shoulders as far as handcuffs allow, and Hank finds it difficult to restrain himself from moans when the cold fingertips write patterns out on his plain skin, when the nails slightly scratch, scorch, leaving shallow crescent moon marks. 

“Get undressed,” Hank growls, and Connor might like to play resisting, to play a bad cop, but hasn’t got the strength, because his own erection is already painfully pressed into the fabric of his pants, and the domineering low voice only aggravates the situation.  
Connor pulls away, gets up from his chair, stands in front of Hank in all his glory and allows the jacket to slowly fall off the shoulders. Next is the tie the knot of which he unleashes unhurriedly, causing a discontented growl. 

“Connor! Damn you, if you do not immediately throw all this rags off!..” 

The guy does not even listen to the threat: the fingers, with a memorized movement, are dealing with the shirt buttons, the belt buckle and the fly. He does not have any underwear, and it makes Hank curse in satisfaction. Connor leans toward the chair, unbuckles the mob’s belt and fly too. Hank gets up as far as possible in this damn-uncomfortable-but-arousing pose, and the guy pulls off his pants together with the underwear almost to the knees. Anderson restrains himself with difficulty, leans forward, aching pain in wrists lost on the background of his wild excitement - and then takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a second, and says haughtily: 

“Prepare yourself, since you have decided to forge my hands.” Hank smirks, and even if Connor knows how much power he needs to pretend that he maintains composure - the phrase is still pulsating and echoing in the excited body, forcing all muscles to shake. 

Connor sits on the table in front of Hank, looks into his eyes and brings his own fingers to his lips, licks them, and only then takes them in his mouth, sucking on them with vulgar smacking. 

“Fuck. Where did you come from like that,” Hank hisses through his teeth, fearing to finish only from this spectacle. This presentation is also not easy for Connor, so he releases wet fingers from his mouth, leads them along the body, leaving a narrow wet path that glows in the light of the lamp, and begins to stretch himself. Hank sees that it hurts, from the frowning brows, the bit till whitening lip, the heavy sighs, but quickly, as if on a click, the unpleasant sensations are replaced with pleasure, Connor opens his eyes, a moan breaks from his lips. 

“Connor!” the voice sounds threatening, and the guy jumps off the table, approaches Hank and kisses him on the lips.  
Pulls away quickly, before Anderson seizes the initiative, and tilts his head, clasping his lips around the already languishing from arousal member. Hank breathes out noisily through his teeth, squeezes his eyes from the ultimate pleasure while Connor wets him with saliva.  
They are both almost at the edge just from the situation itself, seeming unreal due to how often sit flashed in the fantasies. Connor pulls back again, causing a disappointed sigh, saddles Hank’s hips and looks profoundly into the light eyes. One second - and he feels the growing pain, alternating sensation of heat and pleasant fullness. Hank gives him little time to get used to the sensation, and begins to frantically move his hips. Damn, it’s just breathtaking, unlike anything, and Connor must have acted very prudently by cuffing his hands, because otherwise Anderson would have driven his fingers into his hips to bruises, frantically raising and lowering his hot body. 

“Take those fucking cuffs off,” Hank hisses, realizing that he is almost at his peak, and he wants to be closer, deeper, more and more. 

Connor reaches for metal bracelets, to the chain with pre-hitched keys, and frees Hank's hands with his shaking fingers. The man growls, picking up his tormentor under the hips, and rises with a sharp movement, knocks Connor’s back on the table, fucking him to the creak of the tabletop. 

“Hank!..” 

They finish at the same time, and Hank would definitely let out a mocking comment that Connor didn't even need help, only deep and greedy jolts were enough - but, unfortunately, his chest is just burning. They breathe loudly and heavily, hair sticking to their foreheads and necks, their languishing bodies hardly obeying. Hank falls into the chair, Connor remains lying on the table and looking at the stars before his eyes. Anderson rubs his reddened wrists and, looking at how gently the light falls on the smooth, wet skin of a young policeman, he is happy to note that he always gets what he wants.


End file.
